Gilt Cage
by Penguin
Summary: Merlin/Arthur. Merlin has an unfortunate encounter with some vegetables. Arthur's had a bad day, too.


**Disclaimer: **Obviously I don't own the BBC Merlin characters, situations or anything else; I just play with them. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Note: **My very first Merlin fic, written as a prompt fill on LJ, for the prompt _Arthur/Merlin. Arthur washes vegetables fromMerlin's hair_.

GILT CAGE

Merlin will never know if the maid who threw a pailful of vegetable scraps out a back door just as he passed did it on purpose or not, because he can't stay to find out – the Prince is waiting for his bath. So Merlin only swears under his breath at the storm of giggles that emerge from inside, brushes strips of wilted kale and bits of turnip off his shoulder and scoops a handful of what might be rotting carrots from his hair with an _eurgh_, and runs. He allows himself five seconds to change out of his soiled tunic before he hurries to Arthur's chambers.

Someone, who is probably furious at him for being so late, has already carried up the hot water and filled the tub, and Arthur, undressed to the waist, turns around to stare at Merlin. The blue eyes are hard and there are dark shadows beneath them. Arthur hasn't had a good day, either.

"Why is it, Merlin," he says with that haughty, icy note to his voice that Merlin hates because it places a whole world between them, "why is it that you're _never_ in the right place at the right time?"

_That is so unfair_, Merlin thinks, _that i's so incredibly unfair. If you only knew..._

But Arthur doesn't know, mustn't know, so Merlin only mutters something inaudible in reply. When Arthur draws a breath to continue his speech, he notices the mess in Merlin's hair and for a moment his expression hovers comically between amusement and disgust. "What _is_ that, Merlin?"

"Vegetables," Merlin replies stiffly. "A maid threw out a pail of scraps when I passed the kitchens."

Arthur bites his lip and then leaves all pretence and laughs out loud. "Perhaps you _were_ in the right place at the right time for once."

Merlin's back is very straight and his face doesn't show it, but really, he prefers Arthur laughing at him to hearing all that royal iciness in Arthur's voice, emphasising the gulf between them.

Arthur fills a bowl with hot water, places it on the table and turns a chair back to front by it.

"Sit down, Merlin."

"What?"

"Let's get that out of your hair before it dries."

Merlin opens his mouth to say _what?_ again but stops himself in time. He doesn't want to question or protest. It's an order from the Prince, after all; one he is happy to obey, for the thought of Arthur's fingers in his hair makes him suddenly weak in the knees.

As he sits on the chair Arthur comes to stand beside him, so close that Merlin can feel his body heat. He glances sideways and swallows as his field of vision is filled with a pale expanse of skin, the dusting of fine blond hairs shimmering in firelight. A hand on his forehead tilts his head back, and when Arthur's fingers come into his hair, slowly and surprisingly gently, he closes his eyes and tries to suppress the warm shiver that runs through him all the way down to his toes.

xxx

Arthur looks down at Merlin sitting there with his head leaning back and his throat exposed, thinking how utterly trusting Merlin is, wondering about the mystery he can sometimes sense in his servant. Oh, this is wrong, this is all so wrong, and still, in some indescribable, indefinable way, so very, very right. _A prince washing his servant's hair_, Arthur thinks and smiles a little at his own self-indulgence, because sometimes – often – he's wanted to push his fingers through Merlin's thick, dark hair, just like this. When Merlin's eyes fall shut at the touch, Arthur's breath hitches a little and he pulls his lower lip between his teeth, watching dark lashes fan over pale skin as his fingertips slide along Merlin's warm scalp.

He knows he shouldn't allow himself to be so moved by the sight. Pure desire would perhaps be understandable, even acceptable, but not like this, not mixed with tenderness; not for a servant, definitely not for a man.

Arthur scoops water in his cupped hand to wet Merlin's hair, rinses the slimy vegetables out of it like a caress, while his eyes roam Merlin's still face, the taut neck, the shadow at the hollow of the throat where the tunic is open. When he rubs gentle circles into Merlin's scalp, Merlin inhales audibly and his lips part just a fraction. His mouth is so perfect. His hands are twitching in his lap.

Not for the first time, and most certainly not for the last, Arthur wishes he were free, free from this gilt cage of rules and expectations, free to lean down and catch Merlin's mouth with his own. 


End file.
